


Know When to Hold 'Em

by oceaxe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dancing, First Time, M/M, Music, Romance, coda fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Coda fic for season 15, episode 10With Sam and Dean in Alaska, Castiel is left to take on a case involving a string of mysterious deaths at a gay bath house in Portland, Oregon. In the process, he encounters a being who helps him reckon with his fear of his own desires. When he gets back to the bunker, Dean notices that there's something different about his best friend.First chapter is Cas' POV, second chapter is Dean's.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Wigglebox for assistance and support! I took a few liberties with the lore of the Aztec gods portrayed herein, and sadly I did not come up with an explanation for why Aztec gods are making a nuisance of themselves in the Pacific Northwest. Otoh, the show has Greek gods hanging out in the American midwest, so I guess such liberties are par for the course.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tlaz%C5%8Dlte%C5%8Dtl  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X%C5%8Dchipilli

Heaven had been a bust. Castiel had worked out a plan to recruit demigods and angelic-class entities from other pantheons to assist Heaven in maintaining its integrity. Failing that, he felt they should approach the higher-ranking gods to discuss asylum for Heaven’s denizens, in the event that its power should fail entirely. Naomi had rejected both plans entirely. So he'd given her the finger and left. 

Back on earth, he discovers that Dean and Sam have followed their (bad) luck to Alaska. Rather than join them on that wild goose chase, he looks for possible cases to work, to keep himself occupied so he doesn't brood over Naomi's incompetence. Within the hour, he’s reading an article online about a string of unexplained deaths in Portland, Oregon. People have died at a bath house under mysterious, apparently sex-induced circumstances. It’s pretty clearly “their thing,” so he gets ready to go investigate. Oregon’s a lot closer to Alaska than Kansas, so if anything goes awry, he can be there to provide backup much more quickly. 

As he checks the truck's oil level, though, he finds that he's got qualms. Misgivings. A bath house is a place where... where men go to give pleasure to other men. To slake their desire.

As an angel who’d only ever used a vessel fleetingly, Castiel has been a stranger to the desires of the flesh for most of his existence. His mouth twists wryly. The truth is, as an angel of the Lord, Castiel hadn’t had desires at all, even of a celestial, respectable, disembodied kind. But having inhabited this body for many years, he’s become passingly familiar with wants. Needs. 

He seems to wake up desiring coffee, for instance, a placeless tug on his senses that pulls him into the kitchen seeking warmth and caffeine. The pleasure that suffuses him when Dean hands him a steaming cup, telling him to knock back his go-juice before he murders someone, goes beyond any kind of satisfaction he’d known before. 

He sometimes wonders what other forms of satisfaction he might be amenable to, though he usually decides it’s not worth the trouble of finding out. Castiel shakes himself. It doesn’t matter. 

On the long drive to Portland, his thumb hovers over Dean’s number in his contacts for just a moment, then smoothly shifts to Sam’s. He texts the url of the article that drew his attention and gets a “?” in reply. Sam’s raised eyebrows are visible from thousands of miles away. He texts back:

_ Looks like a crossroads deal or possibly divine in origin. Call if you need back-up. _

Castiel deliberately doesn’t let himself think about what Dean’s reaction might be. Undoubtedly either jokingly salacious or unconvincingly judgmental. He rolls his eyes. If Dean wants to ask questions, he can always text. 

When Castiel gets to the location, he’s momentarily impressed with the sheer size of it. 

“A monument to desire,” he murmurs, and shrugs. Human desire has many such monuments, he reminds himself, most of them more felicitously shaped than this one. Dean’s face flickers before his eyes for a moment, as he pictures his reaction to what Castiel is about to walk into. The curl of his lip, a dismissive remark forming. Castiel shrugs again and enters.

The most recent scene of demise has been cleared away, but the assistant manager still looks like a mess, hair rumpled and bags under his eyes that belie his youth.

“I didn’t realize the feds would show up,” he says nervously, ushering Castiel further into the complex. There are dozens of little rooms, each with neatly made-up beds, and giant, stainless steel walled shower rooms, multiple nozzles but no barriers between them. It almost looks utilitarian, not like a den of iniquity, but his guide informs him that one of the murders happened here.

“And what was the means of death?” 

“You haven’t seen the pictures?” Seth swallows and glances to his left, unnerved. “I don’t wanna have to describe it if you’re…”

_ I’m not a homophobe _ , he tries to beam into the young man’s mind. “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation,” he says at last. Seth’s shoulders sag, not entirely in relief.

“Well, the guys… they uh… they seem to have, um, fucked themselves to death.”

“And when you say, seem to…”

“There weren’t any weapons or marks on their bodies. No one saw anything unusual. Just regular. You know. Fucking.”

“Regular fucking,” Castiel repeats. “And yet they died?” 

“Well, not completely regular. You know. I don’t know anyone that can fuck for almost three hours. Not, like, without a lot of breaks.” 

“Hm.” The article had said there'd been no evidence of any performance enhancing drugs or illegal substances in the mens’ bodies. “Did anyone try to stop them?” 

“Stop them? That kind of thing is what this place is for,” Seth said. “People were cheering them on.”

“So they didn’t seem to be in distress?”

Seth almost laughs, but manages to stop himself. “No. They seemed to be having the time of their fucking lives. Pun intended, I guess.” Castiel finds himself intrigued at the thought of a drive so strong that even impending death can’t cast a pall on the pleasure. He won’t lie to himself, he’s curious.

Castiel gets the rest of the tour, Seth showing him the other rooms where deaths occured. One of them, he says, is a video room. At Castiel’s inquiring eyebrow-lift, he clarifies, “where patrons can film themselves for other people here to watch, live.”

“Was anything captured on the video?”

“Yeah, but it was all messed up, you can’t make out what was happening. Really weird too, we paid a lot of money for this system.”

It could be a ghost, Castiel thinks, but what kind of ghost can influence people like this without possessing them? Or perhaps a witch, but the place is so spartan, there’s no room to hide a hex bag. The other possibility is a lot less appealing. A demigod or god. 

They walk on.

“This is the public swing room. Three guys died here a month ago. There were four other people in the room and no one saw anything.” He gestures half-heartedly to a bizarre black leather sling held up with chains. 

Castiel’s mood drops as he realizes he hasn’t sensed any presences here, nor seen any signs of sigils or cursed objects.

The deaths have been sporadic and there’s no guarantee that whatever has been causing them will make an appearance tonight. But it’s clear that he won’t make enough progress simply by searching the place, and he doesn’t have the authority to shut it down. 

“Well, that’s all the rooms,” Seth says when they’re standing in the manager’s office. He looks Castiel up and down in a strange way. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.” “You were extremely accommodating, thank you,” Castiel replies, noticing the way the young man’s eyes keep catching on his lower face. He hadn’t shaved before he left the bunker and he must be looking rough. 

“Will you be here tonight?” He needs to know, because he has to come back as a patron, in case the entity responsible for these deaths decides to show up.

Seth’s face changes, his nostrils flaring slightly, and his hips swivel towards Castiel. “Sadly, no. But feel free to visit some other time.” 

Now Castiel gets it. He’s being flirted with. Or possibly Seth thinks that Castiel was propositioning him. He knows how Dean would react to this; a shy, pleased grin, probably tripping over his own two feet as he backs out the door. He lets his mouth curve into a non-committal smile and takes his leave.

He finds a motel nearby, taking a shower to kill some time. He debates whether he should shave, given Seth’s reaction to his shadow and the fact that he’s visiting a gay club this evening. The thought of inviting that kind of attention on purpose is intriguing, but ultimately he decides it’s too risky. Which is when he discovers he doesn’t have the razor Dean gave him. So, unshaven it is. He puts his trousers back on but leaves the tie and jacket in the room.

By 9 o’clock, his skin is crawling with anticipation, and he’s hesitant to look too closely at the whys and wherefores. When he reaches the club, he realizes he’s reluctant to go inside. 

He forces one foot in front of the other, reminding himself that there is nothing wrong with what happens inside this building.

Inside it’s sweltering, and most of the men here are wearing far less than he is. Sweat prickles along his hairline, something that’s been happening more frequently of late. He runs a hand through his hair and steps up to the counter to pay his “membership” fee. 

Soon, he’s following a group of men to the amphitheater room, unbuttoning his shirt to the sternum and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. He’s hoping to give the impression of a voyeur, someone who is only here to watch. And he is watching, waiting for signs that someone is acting beyond their volition. 

The group of men he followed have scattered, and he’s left with a couple of men, one stocky and one slender, kissing and reaching into each other’s pants. It’s surprisingly affecting to see men being so tender with each other, even if the obvious goal is sexual release. Castiel can tell they know he’s watching and they appreciate the audience, so he allows himself to take it all in. 

Their breathing becomes labored and soon one man is lowering himself onto his knees, pulling the other’s pants around his thighs. A thick cock springs up, surrounded by dark, wild curls. Castiel can smell arousal and his own cock is responding to it. Or to something about the scene he finds himself in, anyway. The atmosphere is not sleazy, as he’d thought it would be. It’s not polished and airbrushed like much of the pornography he’s been exposed to, either. It’s mundane in a way, just two ordinary people touching each other. But they’re so into the other, into the moment. It’s lovely.

Castiel watches as lips sink down over the erection, tempted to touch his own. But no. Not here. The air in the room thickens as the man being worshipped begins to moan, fingers threading into the hair of the other. The mood shifts- motions are more frantic. The tenderness is replaced by need. More men come into the room, their hands wandering over each other’s bodies almost compulsively. 

Something is here. Castiel’s head swims with the urgency he can feel from the bodies around him, from his own as well. It takes far too much effort not to unbutton his pants, release himself into his hand. Tearing his eyes away from people who have become body parts, he sees a dark eyed man in the corner of the room, his lips moving in what looks like a chant. 

Now that Castiel’s seen him, he inhales deeply. There’s no whiff of herbs in the room, nixing witchcraft. He gathers a scrap of grace and steers it to his optical nerves. Yes. There. He can see, superimposed on the silently chanting man, a thing like a woman with a flayed human skin covering her body, feathers on her head. Tlazoteotl, the sin-eating Aztec goddess, her name meaning “death caused by lust.” 

Castiel’s vision blurs and he finds himself focusing again on the men in the room, on their bodies as they grope and writhe and thrust. The energy in the room is foul but compelling. He feels a hand on his arm, sliding down and around to his hip, and he bolts for the door, bashing his shoulder on the jamb on the way out. 

He can think more clearly out of influence of the goddess, and he takes a deep breath to clear his head. Then he turns to look back inside. 

There is a young man being fucked by a much larger man, with almost vicious intensity. Everyone else in the room looks drugged. Castiel steels himself to re-enter the room, summoning what’s left of his grace into his hand. He has to push past several people to get to the larger man, and touches his temple. The man falls asleep immediately, slumping over and off his partner. There are muted cries of disappointment, then a louder sound of dismay as the spell breaks. Someone rushes to see about the larger man, while the younger is approached with concern by two bystanders.

Castiel glances in the corner, but the chanting man is gone. He stalks through the club to find him but there’s no sign of him anywhere. He goes to his car and turns on his phone. Two messages from Sam and one from Dean. He leaves them unread and looks up Tlazoteotl on the internet. Five minutes later he has a plan.

Summoning the goddess’ brother to warn her off will be easier than he thought, given that he’s the patron god of homosexuals. The ingredients for the necessary ritual are available nearby, and he can perform it without drawing too much attention, given that it merely requires him to smoke a spliff with flower petals inside, along with the marijuana and tobacco, while saying a prayer to Xochopilli. 

He walks across the street to a store with a green cross on the window, then next door to the Plaid Pantry where they sell him a cheap bouquet and a pack of cigarettes. Thankfully this is happening in Oregon, not Kansas. He doesn’t know how he’d find pot without Dean’s help, in Lebanon.

Once he’s got the joint rolled, he lights it up and takes a long drag. As he exhales, he says the god’s name three times, along with his many other names - Chicomexōchitl the Seven-flower, Macuilxōchitl, the Flower Prince, the god of music, dance. Love.

The world lights up as though he’s inhaled the sun. A presence weighs on his consciousness, wordlessly asking permission to come in. Castiel consents to being used a vessel, since there’s no other way for Xochopilli to stay on this plane of existence long enough to reason with his sibling. 

//you do not think you are entitled to your desires// his own mouth says to him, in a voice like flowing honey. //they shame you because you believe they will go unfulfilled//

Castiel bristles internally and reminds himself that this entity has unknown power levels. He can’t afford to piss it off. “You may be right,” he says, placatingly, hoping they can get to the business at hand. “Are you able to control your sister?” 

//tlazoteotl is confused// comes the voice. //she does not know how to reconcile a steam bath with lewd behavior. it seems like sacrilege to her//

“Why is that?” Castiel asks. “There is nothing wrong with what happens in the bathhouse. It may not be love, but it is something close to it. It is acceptance and release and community.”

//i will not argue with that// the voice chuckles warmly. //you know I am fond of your people//

Castiel can feel the god searching his desires, sees them himself. He struggles not to focus on Dean’s face, which means that he ends up focusing on his own conviction that his love will be rejected out of hand. 

//it may be so, not every beloved can return the lover’s gift. But you will never know if you do not offer it//

“I appreciate your concern,” Castiel says haltingly, but with sincerity. “However, there are men in that bathhouse that may die if your sister begins her work again. Can you convince her that the deeds these men perform for each other are their own kind of purification?”

//that is an interesting concept. I resonate with it//

  
And Castiel hears the resonance, harmonic and melodic, sees the dance of the flowers following the sun, the bees’ dance as they participate in the life cycle of beauty.

//yes, a dance, it is a dance of love, a celebration of the beauty of living, the music of people in harmony with each other. I see how it purifies the hate in your world. yes, I will make this clear to her//

The chanting man has found them, standing in an alcove outside the building. While the gods interact, Castiel continues to hear the music and see the flowers dancing in his head. The gods’ voices are indistinct; he’s much more focused on the swirling beauty unfolding before him. He is there, in the field, and Dean is there, and they dance together, with the flowers and with each other, with the air and the light and the colors--

//it is done. she is gone. your people are safe//

“Thank you,” Castiel gasps as he comes to. His head is clear and yet still full of visions. 

//your song about this place, that this is a place of purification, was a gift to me. I have given you a gift as well. music will be your companion until your find your own//

  
  
  
  



	2. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Dean's POV.
> 
> The lyrics of The Gambler are referenced pretty heavily in the later parts of this second (and final) chapter. Here's a link to the lyrics I used: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kennyrogers/thegambler.html

Cas has been humming a lot, Dean notices. And he’s oddly graceful, adding little flourishes to his movements. They’re so small, they would be barely detectable except that he’s always so economical and utilitarian in his movements. But the last day or two, Dean’s noticed a glide to his step, a fluidity to his gait that hadn’t been there before.

Cas has been explaining his trip to heaven and then the case he worked, but he trailed off just when he got to the good part. Truthfully, Dean wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear about Cas in a place like that. He tucks the reaction in his back pocket and shifts the conversation to his and Sam’s adventure in Alaska.

So now Dean is telling Cas about Lady Luck, how she’d let them play her game and then got a whiff of Chuck’s stench on them and told them to get out of her bar and never come back. Stakes are too high, she’d said. I’m not insured for that level of risk. He’s kind of faltering at the end of the story, though, because Cas seems to be singing under his breath. 

“Luck be a lady tonight,” he intones softly, and what the fuck? 

“What gives, Liberace?” Dean says, regretting his display of false ignorance immediately; he knows the song is from Guys and Dolls. He’s getting pretty tired of pretending not to know things he’s perfectly aware of. 

The nitrous dream flashes in his mind’s eye, as it has every time he hears even a bar of music for the last week. Cas is still kind of tootling along sotto voce. His voice isn’t half bad. Dean adjusts himself and gets up for another beer.

“Hm? Oh, I’ve…” Cas drifts off for a second, then cuts his eyes up to the ceiling. “You were talking about Lady Luck and it reminded me of that song. Ever since Xochopilli used me as a vessel, I suppose I’ve been more amenable to the charms of music.”

For some reason, this answer disappoints Dean. “Like you were immune before?” he blurts, against his will thinking of the mix tape. “Thought you liked Zepplin.” 

He takes a swig and grimaces at how his voice had gone high there, at the end. Maybe Cas’d given it back because it hadn’t done anything for him. Maybe they hadn’t shared that after all. Maybe…

“No,” Cas interrupts Dean’s spiral. “I did, I do like them. I like to listen to music. But since Portland, I feel like… I don’t know. Doing more than just listening. Music feels good in my,” he pauses and looks down. “Body.” 

He gestures to himself, up and down, and Dean’s eyes follow his hands. He feels a familiar, shameful trickle of heat. “In my throat, it feels good to sing,” Cas says, after a short beat.

Dean’s heart thuds. He doesn’t want to just listen anymore, either. But he turns away, because he’s not sure he knows what he wants to do instead. What, like, have a sing-a-long? Belt out show tunes all night? He drains his beer and chuckles to himself. 

“What’s so funny?” Cas asks, head tilted, face a little forlorn. 

“I’m not laughing at you, man. You got a nice voice.” Dean can feel a blush starting up and looks down at his boots. 

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs, sounding tender and pleased. 

“I, uh, I noticed you’ve been, uh…” Dean doesn’t know how to finish this sentence. “Kinda, like, feeling it. With your body, I mean.” Oh great, a full-on flush. He feels like he’s coming down with something. 

“You may be right,” Cas says, gaze averted. “May I have a beer?” His voice sounds stilted, uncomfortable. Dean had better cool it or he’ll have some explaining to do. 

“Of course, man. Have whatever you like, it’s your home too.” Dean punctuates this earnest speech by getting up to fetch the beer for him, but Cas has already risen from his seat to do the same, apparently, because they collide in front of the fridge. Cas backs away, not even stumbling. “Sorry,” Dean says, as Cas says “Sorry.” 

They both smile awkwardly as Dean retrieves the beer and hands it to Cas, then fumbles as he grabs it back so he can twist off the top. Cas stands there, waiting for his beer but giving the impression he’s waiting for something else entirely. 

“Jinx,” Dean says belatedly, and Cas frowns at him. 

“A spell? You think the beer is…” he holds it out in front of him, examining the bottle, a little furrow in his brow.

Dean laughs, affection blooming hot and dangerous in his chest. Shit, that tearful apology just opened up all the gates, didn’t it, and then the tap-dancing number toppled the few walls left standing. He feels like… like there’s nothing but air between him and Cas. Just the thin air. 

“Naw, it’s a game we played as kids. I mean, all kids play it, I think. When you say the same thing at the same time. But I said jinx first, so now you can’t say anything until I say you can.” 

“Oh, I see-” Cas says, then stops, eyes meeting Dean’s with the tiniest hint of amusement. “Sorry,” he mouths, then does the ‘zip’ thing and Dean knows it’s over, he’s done for. Done for the rest of his life; it’s only ever going to be this man for the rest of his god-damned life. Pun possibly intended.

“You can drink the beer, though,” Dean says. “‘M gonna get another myself.” He feels like a 15 year old. He feels, actually, like he did the night he was going to go to that dance. Fluttery and eager and unable to stop tripping over himself. Mercifully, he doesn’t trip as he gets his drink. He seats himself at the table, where Cas is contemplating at his bottle as though it holds the secrets of the universe. He looks up when Dean sits down, and Dean stares into blue and swallows, then drinks his beer and swallows again. 

“So I can say anything, and you can’t say anything back until I tell you,” Dean explains. His heart is racing a mile a minute. Cas gives a sort of lop-sided smile and drinks, his throat bobbing in an unusually physical way. 

That’s crazy, Dean thinks, Cas is always physical. He’s in a physical form. He’s been physical since the day you stabbed him in the chest.

It’s Dean who feels stabbed in the chest, though. He’s pretty sure that the sight of Cas swallowing has never been so compelling. 

“It’d be more fun if I could ask you anything and you would have to answer honestly.” 

Truth or dare? Is Dean seriously trying to turn this into an 8th grade make-out party? It’s a good thing Sam is in his room brooding over Eileen, or he’d be laughing his ass off at his older brother, acting like a sweating teenage mess. 

He notices Cas pursing his lips and says, “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve been honest with me for a long time. I know.” The atmosphere thickens and he’s back in Purgatory, kneeling by that tree. “I guess it hasn’t been that long since you had to listen to me and couldn’t say anything back.” 

Cas flicks his eyes to Dean’s and they hold the gaze for way too long. A sudden thought occurs to Dean. 

“You can’t, can you? You couldn’t like, talk back to me? In my head?” 

Cas stares even harder, and Dean stares back, leaning in, trying to hear something. Cas’ eyes are searching his meaningfully and Dean listens as closely as he can. He thinks… maybe… there’s something… Then something in Cas’ face shifts and he breaks, shaking with laughter, his head tilting back. Dean laughs too, giddy, realizing he’s on his fifth beer with no food. 

This is his best friend. This is Cas. He can tell Cas anything.

“Okay, roger that,” Dean says, still smiling. They sit and drink for a minute or two in silence, and then Cas starts humming again. Dean raises a finger. “Nuh uh uh,” he says, waving it in Cas’ face, but Cas just points to his mouth, his lips unmoving. I’m not saying anything, he telegraphs with his face, and hums louder. 

Dean nods and tilts his beer to Cas, acknowledging his win. “Very pretty,” he says. “Lemme know when you get near a tune.” Cas’ eyes widen in mock offense and he hums even more loudly, more distinctly. Dean shakes his head.  
“No idea,” he lies. “You’re gonna have to practice more because this amateur-hour…” he breaks off as Cas begins fishing in his pocket, producing his phone and fiddling with it. He hums a few more bars, very deliberately, then turns the screen triumphantly to show Dean. 

It’s The Gambler, which Dean already knew. 

He places the phone on the table between them and presses the play symbol, his humming blending with Kenny Roger’s voice. It’s perfectly in tune. 

The song plays for a minute, both of them staring at the phone although it isn’t showing anything on the screen. “You got to know when to hold ‘em,” Dean sings softly. “Know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away, know when to run. You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table-” he risks a glance up to see Cas watching his lips. “There’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealing’s done,” he finishes the verse, mouth dry. 

Cas stands up and Dean stands too, their bodies in harmony with each and the music. They’re at the corner of the table, so it doesn’t take much maneuvering for them to fall in step with each other, Cas’ hand gently coming to Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s going to Cas’ waist.

Then they’re dancing. 

They’re swaying to the yearning song of a man admitting that he’s never known when to walk away. Dean closes his eyes and pulls Cas in tighter, and this is nothing like the hugs they’ve shared. His head bends down of its own accord; he can feel that Cas is still humming low in his throat, softly, so softly. 

“I wanted to tell you something,” he begins, stops. He takes a moment to inhale deep, the smell of Cas’ hair and skin filling him, the warmth of him seeping into Dean. “You stopped me, but I wanted to say- God, Cas, I’ve got to say it.” 

Cas’ other hand comes up to hold the back of Dean’s neck, pressing their faces together. Dean feels him nod. 

“I should have said that I… you know I don’t just need you.” He turns his face until his mouth is almost touching Cas’ ear. He feels Cas’s body next to his, thrumming with life in a way he somehow never anticipated. The world holds its breath, or maybe it’s just Cas. 

“I- I love you,” he breathes, and he stumbles a little, his knees giving way as something like fire courses through him. Cas catches him, sways with him, and Dean reaches up for his hand, holds his hand, brings it to his mouth.

_Every gambler knows  
That the secret to surviving  
Is knowing what to throw  
And knowing what to keep_

“I’m keeping you,” Dean whispers, a shiver working its way down his entire body. Cas pulls away and Dean’s eyes fly open. “Shhhh,” Cas says, holding Dean’s wide, scared gaze with his own, wide open and blue as the fucking sky. He angles his head and Dean melts, knowing what comes next; yes, those lips are on his, at last. At last. 

The rest of the song plays as they sink into their kiss, swaying into each other. Dean feels tears running down his face and he smiles into Cas’ mouth. “Salty,” Cas murmurs, and Dean gasps. 

“I didn’t say you could talk,” he chides, breathlessly, and Cas says, “How else am I supposed to tell you I love you, too?” 

Dean laughs out loud and slings his arm around Cas’ back, dipping him and spinning him around. 

“With your lips, dummy,” he says, grinning. His heart is breaking wide open and it feels awesome.

Cas reels him back in and hums against his helpless smile. The hum turns into another kiss, which goes from joyful to intent to filthy in about ten seconds flat. “This is so much better than not talking to each other,” Dean pants as Cas’s lips move from his mouth to his neck. 

“I’m still not talking,” Cas says, running his hands up Dean’s sides in a decidedly unangelic way. 

“You want to find out all the other ways we can dance?” Dean asks, letting his hands discover the contours of Cas’ firm flanks and ass. “Like, between the sheets?” Cas snorts. They break apart briefly, Dean’s face burning from stubble, Cas’ face glowing. 

“In the dark?” he returns, pulling on Dean’s hand. 

They head to Dean’s room, and Dean knows that the best that he can hope for is right here. Right now. 

Finally.


End file.
